Love is
by Tehri
Summary: Alfred F. Jones has been pining for the student council president Arthur Kirkland for a very long time, but he has started to doubt that he will ever be able to get his attention. However, perhaps a letter might make it easier to explain what he feels...


**Well, hello! :3 Here comes a Valentine's Day story! I merely wish to note that there is a quote in this story that is from the comic "Least I Could Do" by Ryan Sohmer and Lar deSouza. Cookies for whoever can find the quote! ;D Also, do you guys know how awesome reviews are?**

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americafuckyeah: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggy! iggyiggyiggy!

americafuckyeah: u there man? heeeeeeello?

americafuckyeah: ignoring me now? not awesome, dude

RuleBritannia: Can I ask what the bloody hell it is that could be important enough to make you write that within the past three minutes?

RuleBritannia: Also, don't call me "Iggy". Or "dude". I have a name, and you know it.

americafuckyeah: DUDE ur boring

RuleBritannia: *sigh* Do shut up, unless you have something intelligent to say.

americafuckyeah: i need some help

RuleBritannia: Why am I not surprised.

americafuckyeah: its that essay we have to write

americafuckyeah: could u help me wit it?

RuleBritannia: Why should I? I don't have to help you with anything, you know.

RuleBritannia: And besides, that essay is due in a week. We've had three weeks to write it. How are you not done already?

americafuckyeah: working wit the team

RuleBritannia: The training was cancelled.

americafuckyeah: homework

RuleBritannia: You've already shown that you don't do much homework, and besides, we haven't had that much.

americafuckyeah: okay fine, a videogame kiku gave me

RuleBritannia: Figures. Typical you.

americafuckyeah: fuk u!

RuleBritannia: Oh look, proper punctuation. Now you only need to learn about capital letters and proper spelling.

americafuckyeah: watevs, could u help me?

RuleBritannia: What would I get for it?

americafuckyeah: ill let u choose something

RuleBritannia: That works.

americafuckyeah: if u choose something that wil embarrass me ur dead

RuleBritannia: Hah, I doubt that. Do you want me to come over?

americafuckyeah: im already on my way, on my phone

RuleBritannia: ...

americafuckyeah: and u said i wouldnt need a phone like that

RuleBritannia: I stand by what I said, you DON'T need one. You're just a slave to the media.

americafuckyeah: watevs

RuleBritannia: Where are you right now?

americafuckyeah: goin up the stairs

americafuckyeah: y?

RuleBritannia: *groan* One, don't just assume that I will help you. Two, did it ever strike you that I might need to take care of something before you came over?

americafuckyeah: y, is francis there?

RuleBritannia: What if he is?

RuleBritannia: Are you still there?

RuleBritannia: Alfred? I thought you said you were on your way up.

RuleBritannia: Look, it hardly takes fifteen minutes to walk up those stairs, now what are you doing? Where are you?

americafuckyeah: We can do this another day if today's no good for you.

RuleBritannia: ... You scare me when you use proper sentences. And why would we take this another day? You need to have the essay done soon.

americafuckyeah: mhm

RuleBritannia: Francis left now, so if he was the problem, then just come up already.

americafuckyeah: i know, i saw him

RuleBritannia: Try not to kill him, please.

americafuckyeah: y, want ur sexdoll fully functional?

RuleBritannia: One more line like that and I'll throw you out through the window the second you enter the room.

"I don't see why you're being so hostile when it comes to Francis. What did he ever do to you?"

"He _exists_."

Arthur groaned at the short sentence; if the brat was insisting on being cryptic in that manner, then it was no use to try to make him say more. Said brat was, at the moment, rummaging through his bag for whatever notes he kept there.

"He went out with your brother for a while, didn't he," asked Arthur, trying to bring some light over at least that matter, as he sat down opposite Alfred. "Did that end?"

Alfred muttered to himself, a dark look appearing in his eyes.

"Officially, yes," he replied. "I mean, Mattie still likes him, and he comes around every now and then to see how he is, but you know... He talks so much about who he's been sleeping with, so I end up having to comfort Mattie every time."

The Englishman frowned slightly; he had a feeling of that this was not the only reason for the American's hostility towards his brother's ex-boyfriend, but supposedly it was best to leave it at that. At any rate, Alfred didn't seem very keen on the subject, which was made very clear as he tugged out a worn notebook from the bag and began to flip through the papers while he constantly muttered about what a pain those classes were.

"I thought you would be able to handle it," Arthur commented softly at one point, a light smirk appearing on his face. "Or perhaps you speak a different language than English? Russian, perhaps?"

The slightly younger boy threw him a positively venomous look, knowing all too well why the Brit had said that; his rivalry-bordering-on-hateful-and-reluctant-friendship with Ivan Braginski was well known to everyone who attended the same school, and people made sure to back away or make a run for it if the two were to meet in a corridor or out on the grounds (of course, they couldn't do anything during classes, as they had both gotten in trouble for that once before).

"I ain't no commie," he hissed. "At any rate, you shouldn't talk, limey."

"I speak English as it was intended to be spoken," replied the green-eyed boy, bristling at the insult. "You Americans ruined a wonderful language!"

"As if, we made it better!"

"Like hell you did!"

"Well, prove that we ruined it, then!"

"You know perfectly well what I am talking about!"

"Old man!"

"Brat!"

"Limey!"

"Bastard!"

They glared at each other for a while, but suddenly Alfred burst into laughter; it was a clear sound, and although Arthur had heard it many times, he never stopped wondering how it could sound so carefree.

"Man, you look hilarious," the American grinned, showing his white teeth in a flash. "You look like a younger copy of my granddad when he's pissed off about something! Just with bigger eyebrows!"

For a short moment, Arthur looked as if struck by lightning, but then he put on a fierce scowl, trying to hide his amusement at the comment. Normally, he didn't like comments about his eyebrows, but now when Alfred's bad mood was gone, it felt... alright, somehow.

"Stop it," he said. "Come now, tell me what you needed help with."

"Uhm..." A nervous look flashed in Alfred's eyes for a split second. "... Everything? I mean... I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to write about... I sort of lost the paper, I mean, I was cleaning up a little, and it must've landed among the garbage or something..."

"... Why am I not surprised...? Anyway, it's simple... They wanted us to write about how love is portrayed in different works during the nineteenth century."

At the sight of the American's confused look, Arthur groaned audibly and got up to fetch a few books that ought to be helpful.

* * *

Alfred muttered silently when he came back to his and his brother's apartment, noticing the blue jacket on the hallstand; this was the last thing he wanted. And sure enough, a moment later Matthew came rushing towards him.

"Al," he gasped quietly. "H-he's leaving in a m-moment, I promise...!"

"Why the fuck is he here," Alfred growled. "Why isn't he out with that girl of his? Michelle, or whatever?"

"Th-they broke up... Two days a-ago..."

"Figures. Always fucking around."

"_Mon dieu_, aren't you harsh?"

Alfred's blue eyes snapped over to the doorway to the kitchen, glaring angrily at the blonde youth who stood there with a teasing smirk on his face. The impulse to punch the smirking face came over him, and he had already taken two long strides forward before he caught himself, standing eye to eye with the Frenchman.

"I hear you were visiting Kirkland earlier," Francis said calmly, looking the taller boy in the eye. "Dare I ask why? _Cher Mathieu_ would not tell me."

The American crossed his arms and gave the slightly older boy one of his very best "I fucking hate you and wish that you would drop dead"-glares.

"What the hell would it matter to you," he asked, the challenge clear in his voice. "It's not like you two are best buddies or anything."

"Oh, I dare say that he is fonder of me than he claims to be." The smirk turned into a grin, and Francis stretched almost like a satisfied cat. "Didn't you notice how nervous he was about letting you come to his flat?"

"He knows I don't like you."

"_Oui_, but you don't know what he feels about me."

The words felt almost like a punch in the stomach for Alfred; he _hadn't_ considered that. Ever. And why would he, when all evidence had pointed to that the two hated each other? But then again, the first thing he had heard about Arthur was that he often lied about what he felt, and that he never let people get close to him. That Alfred had actually managed to get to know him a little bit at all was a damn miracle. Arthur had known Francis for ages, ever since they were little...

"I will let you think about that," said Francis as he smirked slyly and patted the American's shoulder. "I mean, why would he choose you? He always complains about how loud you are, how you always manage to put your foot in your mouth whenever you open it, how fixated you are on looks... It is no wonder if he dislikes you!"

Matthew watched the scene uneasily. The Frenchman didn't know how to see if Alfred was upset, but the Canadian did. And he knew that although Alfred might look like he was in shock at the moment, he could suddenly explode. It was a little like suddenly realising that you had trod on a landmine and just waited for the brief moment it would take for it to explode.

"Francis," he said carefully. "I think you should leave." At the surprised look his ex-boyfriend gave him, his gaze got colder. "Now."

Francis held up his hands in a mock surrender and went to grab his jacket. But he couldn't resist the temptation of saying one more thing.

"I know where he keeps all his clothes. Underwear included."

Just as the door closed, Alfred clenched his fist and slammed it at the wall, growling angrily to himself. Francis was lying. He had to be. Arthur _hated_ him, why would he ever want him near? Why would he _sleep_ with him? It was just impossible. A hand on his arm stopped his thoughts, and he quickly turned his head to glare at the intruding owner of the hand. Matthew calmly looked back at him, smiling slightly.

"Al, look," he said softly. "Aren't you taking that a bit too seriously? I mean, you should know it by now, he tends to focus more on sex than anything else..." He shrugged. "Hell, he's been talking about it nonstop since he broke up with me. And besides... Haven't you got a trump card here? You don't just want sex, you want something serious. I don't think Arthur will ignore that."

Alfred snorted and shook his head, muttering quietly.

"He barely even sees me as a friend, Mat," he said, bitterness lacing every syllable. "I hate it. I mean... I want to make him feel something... more. But why would he? For fuck's sake, I'm just... I'm an idiot. He hates me."

"I sort of doubt that. I mean, you just said that he sees you as a friend."

"_Barely_."

"Yes, but still!" Matthew sighed and patted his brother's shoulder. "Look, Al, everyone knows how he doesn't always tell people what he means or what he feels. So maybe you should try doing something to show what you feel. Something that will make sure that he won't doubt you."

The American groaned loudly.

"I already made an excuse just for coming over to his place, okay?" He leaned against the wall, banging the back of his head against it. "Fuck, I've been done with that essay for ages, it was the simplest thing they've asked us to do so far. I mean, damn, how fucking hard is it to describe that? I just... I mean... I just wanted him to talk to me. It was just to hear him talk about... about love." He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I mean... he gets so passionate, and he looks so eager, if you get what I mean..."

A grin began to spread on Matthew's lips. Alfred knew that grin, of course; it was the one that said "you just gave me an idea that's more awesome than all of the things you consider awesome combined, and I don't care if you'll hate me for it".

"Come on," he said. "Let's go and sit down, okay? I'm going to explain something to you that'll definitely make him melt."

* * *

Arthur sighed deeply to himself and rubbed the back of his head; it had been a long day, and he felt incredibly tired. School was not very difficult, but being the student council president did take its toll on him. But finally, he was allowed to return to his flat, Having a family who could pay for an apartment off-campus was nice; for one, he didn't have to listen to loud parties every weekend. He stepped over to the mailboxes and rummaged through his pockets to find his keys, quietly unlocking his box and grabbing his mail. He only needed to walk up two flights of stairs and pass through a short corridor to reach the door to his apartment, and on the way he began to look through the neat little collection of envelopes. Just as he reached his floor, he found one small unmarked brown envelope; his name was neatly written on the front, in a familiar handwriting. He couldn't quite place it, but he was certain of that he had seen it a few times before. Slowly, he unlocked and opened the door, stepping into the apartment. He dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, threw off his jacket, and wandered into the kitchen, frowning slightly.

"When did I see this," he mumbled to himself. "I know I've seen this handwriting before..."

He placed the rest of the mail on the table, but held the one brown envelope clutched in his hand. He wasn't certain about if he had been standing there for five or ten minutes, just studying the handwriting, before he finally opened it, took out the letter, and read it.

_My dearest Arthur,_

_I have thought much about love recently; what it means, who deserves it, and more. It is a difficult subject at first, before you really set your mind to understanding it; understanding words, understanding feelings, and understanding the slightest gesture, a brief glance._

_I do not believe that I am one who deserves such a heavenly boon. No, not me. In fact, I very much doubt that I will be allowed the briefest glimpse of the Gates when I die; I am not worthy of such a thing._

_But you..._

_You deserve all good things that can be granted to one human being. No, forgive me. I should not call you human. You, my most beloved, are no human, but rather one of the Lord's most beloved angels, sent to Earth for a short time. Do not try to tell me that this is not so, for I am convinced of it. Your beauty, your impeccable grace, your voice, and the words you speak; everything is otherworldly, although it might sound odd now that I say it._

"It starts out good," he mumbled to himself. "No one has ever called me an _angel_ before..."

_Whenever you speak, I find myself watching your lips move, losing myself in the fascination of how something as normal as speech can be so incredibly sensual. You ask me if I am listening, and I always say "Yes" – at least that is what I say in my mind. The words you hear are always so different, and most of the time, you get irritated when you hear them._

_That is my next point. You are often so flustered, and when you are, your perfect porcelain skin turns an incredible shade of pink or red; I have noticed that you have a habit of biting your lip as well when you are flustered – please, don't ruin such perfect full lips by breaking the skin with your teeth._

He frowned slightly; who had acted like that? Who had stared at him when he spoke and said something obnoxious when he asked if they were listening?

"There aren't that many," he told himself. He ran one hand through his unruly hair, but stopped as he continued to read.

_I have heard you say that your hair is impossible to get under control; some say that it looks like a bird's nest, even, and most who say that claim that it looks ugly. I cannot agree. Yes, your hair is unruly, but not in the impossible way you think. It looks as if a strong wind has been blowing through it constantly, leaving it beautifully tousled and out of place. I love how it looks on you, and I take every opportunity to touch it; it is difficult to make something like that look good, but with you, it is entirely natural, and you are not even aware of it. Sometimes, a little loss of control can be a good thing._

"Touching my hair," he whispered, barely understanding why he was keeping his voice so low. "Who... No, there really aren't that many... B-but it can't be..."

_Are you aware of how beautiful your eyes are? Do you know how often I find myself staring at them, losing myself in the middle of a sentence and forgetting what I was talking about? I make no sense at all when that happens, as I am sure you know. I look at them, I lose myself in them, and I find myself thinking of so many different things at once. Green rolling fields, a great forest in the middle of summer, seaweed gently clinging to rocks in the ocean, emeralds glimmering in the light of a torch... When you are angry, it is as though they are set aflame, a green inferno threatening to swallow up the one who kindled your wrath; when you are happy, they twinkle and glimmer like stars on a cloudless midnight sky. Never before have I seen eyes that are more beautiful than yours are._

_I have written so much already, have I not? You have much to do, my dear, but should you not take a while to sit down and rest? Please, do that now. Sit, and try to imagine my voice speaking softly to you, try to imagine my hands on your shoulders, carefully demolishing every sign of that rigid posture you always hold. Relax, Arthur, and let go of all your worries. Forget every sorrow, forget every other moment than this one. Loosen your grip on the world, and let yourself float away, only for a little while. I am not saying "forget about your work forever". What I am saying is, "do not think only of your work". I want to see your eyes glimmer like stars; it has been so long since I last saw that, for you have been troubled lately, and it worries me._

The voice he imagined was low and husky, and yet so incredibly familiar, although he had to admit that he had never heard it speak such soft words before. He could practically feel the two strong hands on his shoulders, massaging them gently, making him shiver...

_As I said, I have thought of what love means. Love is to crawl there if you couldn't walk, and chasing after what you want instead of settling for what you think that you deserve. Love is caring for someone more than you care for yourself, and asking for help despite pride, embarrassment or fear. Self doubt and confusion will fade, but love will endure._

_I care for you more than I care for myself or anyone else. I have asked you for help on many occasions, no matter how much it frightened me, or how much I thought that it would wound my pride. I have chased you for so long, but you have yet to realise what I feel, which is what I hope to convey with this letter. I cannot say that I deserve you, I never did. But I want you. I need you. I love you more than anything on God's green Earth, and even though he might call his angel back to Heaven one day, I pray that I will be allowed to spend at least my meagre lifetime in your company, be it as a friend or a lover; which doesn't matter, as long as I do not have to be far away from you, as long as you know what I feel and that I will wait and hope that you might feel the same way I do one day, no matter how far away that day might be._

_I love you, Arthur. I love you so much, my dearest Angel._

He could practically hear that voice speaking those last words, see the blue eyes burning with that odd flame in front of him, and feel the hands gripping his shoulders as if he were afraid of letting go. Then, as he blinked, it vanished, and he suddenly found himself lying on his back on the sofa in the living room, staring absent-mindedly at the letter in his hands.

* * *

It was Valentine's Day. Three months had passed since Arthur had received that letter, and yesterday there had been another. Just a short note this time, asking him to wait under the busted lamp in the park; it was cold, and he shuddered and burrowed his face down in his scarf, wondering what was taking so long. He had been standing there for an hour already when someone finally approached him.

"You look cold." That voice... "The hell were you thinking, huh? You'll freeze to death like that."

A leather jacket was wrapped around his shoulders, and he found himself recognising the faint scent of hamburgers, coffee and something else that he couldn't quite place, but which reminded him of vast grassy plains... He looked up, and stared into a pair of bespectacled cerulean eyes. Alfred was grinning at him, but there was a specific feeling to that grin.

"And somehow, I don't feel surprised..." Arthur chuckled softly, giving the American one of the soft smiles that were normally so rare. "I don't know why, but it really felt like that letter was from you..."

"Or maybe you were just wishing it was me."

"... Are you saying that you didn't write it...?"

He couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice, and Alfred laughed and wrapped his arms around him, making a blush rise to the Englishman's cheeks.

"'course not." The grin softened into a loving smile. "It took ages to write that. I didn't wanna rush it... Mattie helped a bit, sure, but at least ninety-eight percent are all me." His hand trailed over Arthur's cheek. "I meant every word. It's up to you whether you want us to stay friends, or if you want it to be something more... No matter what you choose, I'll always be waiting for you..."

"Under a busted lamppost?" The Brit smiled, placing his hand over Alfred's. "I know where I want this to go, Alfred... And I think I knew it already when I read that letter..."

He pressed himself against the taller boy, their bodies seeming to fit perfectly together, and gently moulded their lips together, not wanting to wait any longer for that first sweet kiss.

* * *

"Hey, Arthur...?"

Arthur tore his eyes away from his book and peered down at the American who had his head in his lap.

"What is it, Alfred?"

"I was just wondering..." Alfred bit his lip and gave him a searching look. "Have you ever slept with Francis?"

There was a brief moment of silence before the Englishman suddenly burst into laughter, laughing until tears were streaming down his cheeks. Alfred puffed up his cheeks and glared at him; he never liked being laughed at, especially not when he had only asked a simple question. But soon, Arthur wiped away the tears and grinned at him.

"Good lord, has he told you that?" There was a nod, and a few chuckles escaped him. "Don't believe everything that frog tells you, stupid. Why would I ever sleep with him? He has been here quite many times, yes, and he knows where I keep things, but I have not and do not wish to see him naked or let him touch me." The grin turned into a sly smirk. "That is only for you, love."

Although a light blush dusted his cheeks, Alfred suddenly sat up, quickly manoeuvring so that he had his legs on either side of his lover, and tugged Arthur towards his chest.

"So I'm the only guy to ever see you like that?"

"... I thought you would ask if you were the only _person_ to ever see me like that."

"Dude, your relationship with that Indian girl wasn't exactly secret."

"Do shut up."

Alfred laughed, suddenly feeling relieved, and kissed the Brit deeply.

"I love you, Arthur."


End file.
